


Never Mind The Birds, What About The Bees?

by Liadt



Category: Rising Damp (TV)
Genre: 1970s sitcom attitudes, Established Relationship, M/M, Objectification, Sexist Attitudes, Sexist Language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-21
Updated: 2020-01-21
Packaged: 2021-02-26 08:27:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,251
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22350865
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Liadt/pseuds/Liadt
Summary: Alan can't be the only bloke Rigsby has been attracted to, can he? After watching a film, Alan tries to find out.
Relationships: Rupert Rigsby/Alan Moore (Rising Damp)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 3





	Never Mind The Birds, What About The Bees?

On the television screen, the credits rolled and Rigsby shoved the last few crisps from the bowl into his mouth. The crumbs fell onto Vienna, who was sprawled across his lap. Alan lounged next to him on the sofa. Alan would have liked Vienna’s position, but he reckoned Vienna had been starved of his “daddy’s” affection of late, since he and Rigsby had got together. Yesterday, Rigsby had told the cat when he sunk his claws in Alan’s leg to be nice to his second daddy, although Alan found it hard to imagine Vienna having one father, animal or human. 

“Who do you think is the best Bond?” asked Alan, when the adverts came on. 

“Connery,” said Rigsby, without hesitation.

“What about Moore?”

“Him? He’s too soft.”

“Trust you to like the nasty one. Moore’s better looking.”

“Connery doesn’t need pretty boy looks; it’s his virility that makes him attractive.”

“You fancy him then?”

Rigsby scowled. “No, I was telling you why he was better.”

“Who do you fancy?”

“I wouldn’t complain if Brigitte Bardot did more ads.”

“What about blokes?” Alan knew what birds Rigsby went for; they’d discussed the various merits of the ones they watched on telly frequently. As for blokes, Rigsby was coy. He couldn’t be the only bloke Rigsby had ever fancied, could he? Alan had tried to instigate a conversation about it before; when _McCloud_ was on, he’d said he’d like to be swept up by McCloud on to his horse, hoping Rigsby would chip in. When he did, he appeared unmoved by McCloud’s charms and Alan had to admit he wasn’t that mad on him either, but he had a nice horse. As it was in the run up to his birthday, Alan had spent the time worrying he’d given Rigsby the impression he wanted to go horse riding and he’d get a pony trekking holiday booked as a present. On the day, however, he took Alan on a trip to his favourite curry house (Rigsby avoided the curry and stuck to chips), obviously he wasn’t keen to get on a horse either. 

“Blokes?”

“Apart from me, I’m fairly sure you fancy me.”

Rigsby rubbed his temple with a finger. “When I was at school, there was one time when I was sat on the edge of the playground reading a comic. The rest were running around playing kiss chase. If I’d been paying attention to them, I might have dodged Al Jenkins when he came up and snatched my comic. I chased after him, he let me catch him and then he kissed me. He’d done it as a dare and everyone laughed. I was humiliated, but I didn’t find it as horribly disgusting as I made out. Al wasn’t ugly and I was confused by the kiss. If he and his mates weren’t so rotten to me, throwing my things in the mud and the like, I might have ended up fancying him.”

Alan wanted to hug him to make his rubbish childhood better, but the cat would have objected, or go back in time and protect him from school bullies, but he couldn’t do that either. “There’s nothing worse than someone who looks good on the outside and then you find they’re bad on the inside,” said Alan, offering the only thing he could, which was sympathy, before steering the conversation back to where he wanted it to go. “Have any famous blokes caught your eye?”

“Schoolboy crushes are one thing, but I’m not telling you about showbiz crushes.”

Alan was mystified by his refusal. “Why not? Is it a MP or someone embarrassing like that? I promise I won’t laugh.” Although, admittedly, he’d have to try hard not to, if that was the case.

“It’s not like that. You’ll get jealous if I tell you.”

“I wouldn’t ask if I’d get jealous. You’re happy enough to rabbit on about birds to me.” 

“That’s because you can’t compare yourself with them. You’re not built like them.” Rigsby used his hands to illustrate what women had that he didn’t. 

“That’s daft. I could just as easily go all green eyed because I lack a pair of knockers. I thought it’d be fun to rate blokes like we rate birds on TV. We could get a new calendar, it’d make a change from Pirelli, how about Cliff Richard?” said Alan casting about for someone dating back to Rigsby’s generation and not going far enough back. 

Rigsby looked at him like he was gone out. 

“Maybe not Cliff then, even if he is of your era.”

“Hey! You’re out there, boy. Stars were classier in my day, he’s too goody-goody. Anyway, when I told Veronika how tasty Liz Taylor was in _Cleopatra_ she took offense and it was never a good idea to provoke her,” Rigsby said with a wince. 

“She could have reacted the same way if you said Richard Burton.” If Rigsby’s ex-wife was easily offended, then surely he had shown he was the opposite.

“Huh, she wouldn’t, she would have mocked me and I wouldn’t have seen her for dust rushing down the pub to make me into a laughing stock. I didn’t think she’d be upset as we were at the barely talking stage of our relationship. I bet it was the thought of anything bringing me pleasure that set her off.” 

“I’m not your ex-wife. I’m not going to handbag you.”

“If you insist...”

“I do.” Alan smiled and nodded encouragingly.

Rigsby gave him an unimpressed look that showed he thought Alan was coming across as patronising. “I used to have a thing for Yul Brynner. When _The King and I_ was on at the pictures I went to see it as often as I could until they replaced it. The songs did my head in, but I didn’t care.” Rigsby leaned back and smiled happily in blissful recollection. 

“Yul Brynner? But he’s bald!” said Alan, putting his hand to his head to feel his precious locks. “When you kept going on at me to cut my hair, I thought it was because you secretly liked it. Is it still too long for you?”

“See!” said Rigsby and Vienna leap off his lap alarmed by the volume of his exclamation. “I knew you’d get like this and now the cat’s upset too. I was right to keep my trap shut. I like your hair: I wouldn’t run my hands through it half so often if I didn’t.” He folded his arms in indignation and looked away, annoyed. 

Alan flushed, ashamed by his outburst. “Sorry I overreacted. It wasn’t the kind of bloke I was expecting.”

“Shows how much you know about me.”

“If you’d tell me, maybe, I wouldn’t act like a daft pudding,” said Alan, sounding contrite.

“Robert Redford’s alright, are you going to be panicking and rushing off to get a bottle of peroxide?”

“He’s not bad, but I prefer Paul Newman.”

“You would like the older one.” Rigsby looked at him again and a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

“’Course.” Now Vienna and his claws had gone, Alan put a hand on his cheek as a prelude to a kiss.

“You can’t get around me like that,” said Rigsby, as he leaned towards him.

“Yes, I can. Now, you be Butch and I’ll be Sundance,” said Alan and kissed him gently.

“I don’t remember this happening in the film.”

“This is the alternative ending.”

“It’s definitely an improvement,” said Rigsby, in between kisses.


End file.
